


Constellations on His Skin

by falindis



Series: Into This Wild Abyss [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Drugging, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Maedhros has a bad time, Mairon calling Maedhros pet-names, Melkor enjoys the show, Partially Melkor's POV, Sauron is a horrible person, Thoughts on nicknames in general, Torture, Vampire Blood As Aphrodisiac, Vampirism, implied russingon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24551266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falindis/pseuds/falindis
Summary: “I should punish you for your impudence. Flay your flesh one limb after another, break your bones and grind them to dust. I could simply take you, force you open and use you dry, until you are broken and begging to die. Yet… no. You would simply hate me more and refuse to talk. That would not do. But rest assured, Maitimo, you will hate after this. Just not me.”Consists of two separate sections - thoughts on the captivity of Melkor after the siege of Utumno, the theft of the Silmarils, and his relationship with Mairon; and the captivity of Maedhros in the dungeons of Angband, from both Melkor's and Mairon's POV. Mairon has creative ways of making his prisoners talk. His dark desires lead to bad times for the elf.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Into This Wild Abyss [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742446
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	Constellations on His Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Although Melkor and Mairon are having a lovely time, this is not a happy fic for Maedhros. So if any of the following elements (torture, rape/non-con, drugging) make you uncomfortable, this is perhaps not your fic. The goal of this fic is to show how twisted and alike Melkor Mairon quickly in his devotion becomes, and that is what the contents are. So please, proceed with caution.

Mairon still remembered the first time he saw Melkor kill.

The blood bloomed crimson upon his master’s lips, blood that was not his own. Mairon’s hands shook as he wiped it off Melkor’s cheek, pattered it clean with a white cloth. Mairon slept next to him and dreamed of red, of blossoming flames and darkened skies. He did it again and again, and night by night the dreams became lesser, until in the end they stopped entirely.

He stood by his side as he fought the first wars against the children of Iluvatar, commanding the field as his greatest lieutenant. And three thousand years he loyally waited for his master’s return, knowing that no prison, no holding cell or distance could keep them apart. Those years he continued building their strength in Angband, gathering more forces and making sure that once Melkor would return, their revenge and reunion would be strong and sweet.

And it was, oh so sweet. For several days they made love after Melkor’s return, no longer caring whether they would be seen. Every being in Angband and beyond would know it now, that Melkor was not alone, that someone stayed beside him no matter what he did.

The rest of Arda called Melkor a monster.

He was never that to Mairon, no, although the Silmarils charred Melkor’s hands down to the bone, and the horrors he committed were too terrible to be put into words.

What was the difference?

Mairon loved him.

Melkor touched his soul deeper than any other being ever had. Every thought, every dream and every part of Mairon’s body was so utterly taken by Melkor, that eventually they became almost indistinguishable. And although neither of them knew that then, even long after Melkor was gone, he would live through the works of Mairon, for Mairon had become an extension of Melkor’s body. Eventually so little of him remained that he, too, lost his name.

“My lord Morgoth…”

Mairon would lapse to using his master’s false name sometimes – it was what his enemies and most of his servants called him now, a mockery, yet a magnificent one – a name that invoked both terror and admiration.

But all of those times Melkor would chide him.

“Do not call me that. For you I am Melkor, and always will be. Just like you shall always be my Mairon, my most trusted, the most admirable.”

Although many would later believe that those words were spoken out of pride, out of unwillingness to see the change, there was a truth to them too. For Mairon was never just a servant to him, never just a tool. Melkor too, loved him, in his own twisted way. He loved him so deeply that he marred all of Arda for him, raised mountains and cut them down just to show his love and reverence for what they together had built.

And as the rivers of Arda ran red with the blood of the enemies of Sauron and Morgoth, even Eru above would weep, for out of the most beautiful emotions stemmed the darkest of destruction.

*

Melkor’s hands ached.

The agony from touching the Silmarils still stung, a constant throbbing beneath his fingers. It plagued his body, tortured his mind, invaded his thoughts and his dreams. Few things these days distracted him from the pain.

Tormenting his prisoners was one – it allowed him to project the pain he felt into another being. But even better than that was watching his lieutenant do the work for him.

Mairon’s hands were slick with blood. It coated the tips of his fingers, dotted his boots in sputters, ran in long streaks across his robes. Annoyance sparked in those amber-red eyes of his, flickered in the dark flames dancing across his skin.

“Such a pretty prisoner”, he sighed with a clap of his hands. The victim lay dead on his feet, a lowly elf, his face now mutilated and twisted beyond recognition. His body, naked and pale, however, was intact still, and a rather pleasing body it was – were it not for the dozens of bloody gashes slashed across his chest. “If only he had not tried to escape.”

Melkor felt a rush of pride at the sight. He had come so far, his Mairon. Melkor still remembered the timid, quiet thing Mairon used to be, a slowly suffocating flame. He was that no longer. This fire before Melkor was a conflagration, something inevitable and untamable. An image of pure perfection.

“A waste, indeed”, Melkor agreed. “He would have made the perfect little toy.”

“Him?” Mairon scoffed. “His mere existence was an insult to your greatness, my lord. He needed to die.”

“Yes.” The dungeons of Angband held far too many prisoners to waste time on each of them. Besides, their dark depths hid much more important prisoners. The most precious of them all was being prepared for them by the moment. Melkor tapped his fingers impatiently, turning towards the orc guard at the door.

“The _noldo”,_ Melkor inquired. “Is he ready?”

The orc bowed his head. “I will look into it at once.”

“Good”, Melkor hummed. He could hardly wait.

*

The elf came before Mairon naked and bare. The orcs had sheared every strand of his hair to a coppery fuzz, hugging his scalp tightly. Even the hairs on his limbs and genitals had been cut, leaving him completely exposed to Mairon’s intense gaze.

The orcs pushed him in, laying and shackling him to the table like a sacrifice. As Mairon came closer he took a moment to simply admire the sight with a twisted curiosity. The elf was tall, muscular, with hundreds of tiny freckles dotting every inch of his skin. Mairon took it all in, even the parts the elf was trying to hide. Especially them. It was a very pleasing sight indeed.

“Son of Fëanor”, Mairon sang, circling the table slowly, examining the elf from every possible angle. “What a pleasure it is to finally meet you in the flesh. I have heard so many good things about you.”

The elf said nothing. He simply lay motionless as a stone, avoiding Mairon’s stare. It was not until Mairon came to him and forced him to look him in the eye that he flinched, recoiling from his touch. But even then a fierce defiance burned in the elf’s eyes, which Mairon found intriguing. He knew that for an elf their hair symbolized their virility, their manhood, and even with that robbed this suspect showed no signs of compliance.

“Do you know who I am?”

The elf clenched his teeth. “Sauron”, he snarled. “Cur of Morgoth.”

That earned him a slap across his face. “Incorrect, twice so. That is Mairon, _Tar-Mairon_ to a lowly being as you, and Melkor, your lord and your _God_. You shall address us with our correct names, or you shall not address us at all.”

The elf gathered his saliva and spat. That earned him another slap, on the opposite cheek this time.

“Now, where are your manners? Is that any way to treat your hosts?” Mairon’s hands went to a side table, which held a metal gag. “I would very much prefer not to have you silenced, for where would the joy in that be? We have only just begun.”

The elf’s breathing quickened, but he remained silent this time. Mairon put the gag back on the table.

“Now, let us start over. Tell me, what I should call you? Maitimo? Or would you prefer _Nelyo,_ like your brothers call you? Or perhaps _Russandol,_ the nickname used by your dear lover.”

That invoked a reaction from the elf. His cheeks flushed, eyes widening. “How… what…”

Mairon chuckled. It had been a mere guess, but the elf’s reaction confirmed it. “Perhaps I will use all of those. It will make an interesting game.” Mairon ran his long fingernails on the _noldo’s_ pretty skin, much like his own. “Of course, this could all be avoided. You could reveal us the whereabouts of your brothers. The location of your troops. That would save you from much suffering.”

The elf sneered at him. “I would rather suffer a thousand deaths than betray my family and kin.”

“Hah! A noble sentiment! Although, coming from you, it somewhat loses its power. The blood of your kin is still on your hands, Maitimo. Closing your eyes does not make it disappear.” Mairon cupped the elf’s chin in his hands, squeezing his cheeks and lips to a pretty pout. Beautiful lips, parted like that for him. The imagery it invoked stirred his loins. “I shall ask you again. Where are your brothers?”

Just silence this time. Mairon squeezed harder, his fingernails drawing red half-circles on the elf’s cheeks. “Speak.”

The elf closed his eyes but did not reply.

 _“Speak”,_ Mairon hissed.

“Never.”

Mairon drew a sharp breath in through his nose. He fought the urge to squeeze even harder, to crush the elf’s skull with his bare hands. But then his eyes went to his master, who was still observing them from the shadows of the door.

Mairon could sense his hate, his _loathing_ towards this lowly being, so thick that it rolled from him in dark waves. That made Mairon’s anger subdue. This creature was Melkor’s to kill. Mairon simply needed to mold him first, to wear the metal enough to bend but not to break.

That is when a thought occurred.

Mairon loosened his grip. His fingernails had dug bloody crescents across the elf’s face, but he was still as comely as ever. Perhaps even more so.

“This is enough for today”, Mairon said, flashing a row of too sharp teeth. “Rest now, Nelyo. You will need your strength. For I will make you talk. One way or another.”

*

Maedhros awoke to Mairon’s hands on his neck.

But where Melkor’s touch would have been rough and swift, Mairon’s was soft and slow. Melkor watched from the door as Mairon ran his thin fingers from Maedhros’ throat to his chin, to the tips of his ears, caressing him like a lover would.

“Nelyo…” he crooned softly. “Wake up.”

Maedhros opened his eyes. Even from that first look a fire sparked within them, the same flame Melkor well recognized. Just seeing that simple spark filled him with anger. Although Fëanor was long gone he still continued to torment him, through the pain that Melkor felt in his hands. It was only fitting that his sons would face an equally gruesome fate.

“Slept well?” Mairon asked Maedhros, licking at his earlobe. The act made the elf grimace and flinch, turning his head away.

“Don’t touch me”, he said.

“Oh”, Mairon lifted his eyebrows. “You wish for me to stop? Then talk.”

“No.”

Mairon hummed, pausing for a moment. Maedhros closed his eyes as if expecting a blow. It never came. Instead, the lieutenant loosened the chains holding the _noldo_ to the table.

“Up”, Mairon commanded, taking a step back.

The _noldo_ didn’t obey at first, laying in his place as if suspecting some sort of trickery. Melkor could see deep inside that head of his – no doubt plotting his escape that very moment, how he could strangle Mairon with the very chain that the lieutenant had himself forged.

But Mairon simply lifted a finger, childing him with a _tsk._ “No, my dear Maitimo. I would not do that if I were you. Up.”

This time Maedhros did as he was ordered. He rose up groggily, the chain around his hands clattering as he did. Mairon quickly moved to hook it to the ceiling, pulling it taut so that the elf’s toes barely brushed the floor. He glowered at Mairon, then turning his gaze away when he saw the lieutenant’s smirk. That is when his eyes met Melkor’s own.

Melkor had thought he had seen the elf angry before. He had been wrong.

 _This_ was true anger.

“You”, Maedhros spat. He struggled against his bindings, trying to take a step in Melkor’s direction, but the chain would not allow it. He was simply forced to fight in vain, and the Melkor watched as Fëanor’s son’s anger slowly turned to desperation at the sight of the Silmarils. It must have hurt quite a bit, being so close and so far to what he had fought so hard for.

“You thief”, he cried. “You hold no claim to the Silmarils!”

Mairon frowned at the elf’s disobedience, took a step forward, and lifted his chin to look him in the eye. A jab at the creature’s pride, surely – for Maedhros the tall they had called him – yet at the Maia’s side he looked like a child.

“You will not address my master like that”, Mairon hissed.

The sight only made Melkor’s smile broaden. Mairon had always been close to fanatical in the defense of his master. And although Melkor enjoyed how pliant Mairon was in his hands, it was this fire that he fell in love with too, this audacity and zeal.

“I should punish you for your impudence. Flay your flesh one limb after another, break your bones and grind them to dust. I could simply take you, force you open and use you dry, until you are broken and begging to die.” Mairon’s veins had started to glow with their telltale gold, the _noldo’s_ skin sizzling beneath his touch. “Yet… no. You would simply hate me more and refuse to talk. That would not do. But rest assured, Maitimo, you will hate after this. Just not me.”

Mairon let Maedhros go, and the fire in his veins died out.

Maedhros gritted his teeth, tears streaming down his face at the pain. _Still beautiful._ “I will _never_ bow down to you.”

Mairon smiled sadly, drying away the tears. “I am sorry it had to come to this. I truly am.”

That single action was the key difference between Melkor and him. Where Melkor did not care for what others thought of him and would do with them as he pleased, Mairon was hyper-aware of everything. He wanted to be adored, loved, to believe that he was always right. And that was precisely what made him so devious.

Melkor already knew where this was heading.

“Lady of Shadow”, Mairon called. “Come.”

Suddenly the edges of the room seemed to stir and boil like air on a summer day. From the ripples emerged a creature, cloaked in shadow that clung to her porcelain skin like translucent piece of fabric, highlighting her slender stomach and the curve of her bony hips, the redness of nipples on full breasts. In the back her shadow gown split in two, making way for a pair of large, bat-like wings.

Melkor recognized this creature: Thuringwethil, Mairon’s vampire herald and loyal servant. And the most skillful one, indeed, in shapeshifting and great many things.

Melkor hummed: half satisfaction, half anticipation.

“You called, my lord”, she spoke, softly as the whisper of the wind.

“Yes”, Mairon answered. “I have a gift for you.”

Thuringwethil stepped forward. As she did so, her dark hair seemed to float around her head like she was underwater, constantly moving and changing shape. Her movements were silent, ghost-like, and so swift they barely registered to the eye. In just a blink of an eye she had moved from the door to reach the elf, and was now observing him with wide, dark eyes.

“A gift”, she said. “What a beautiful little toy.”

Maedhros recoiled at the touch of her pale fingers, disgust and horror written upon his face. _“What_ are you?”

“My name is Thuringwethil”, the vampire smiled, flashing the sharpness of her teeth. She turned towards Mairon and nodded in gratitude. “And what is the nature of this gift?”

“He is for yours to enjoy, and prepare”, Mairon replied. “Play, but not too indulgently. I do wish for him to remain conscious.”

“Yes”, Thuringwethil hissed. Her voice was an almost painfully sharp whisper, like the scrape of a knife against porcelain. Then in one, single movement too fast for the eye, she was no longer standing in front of the elf but behind him, her hands on his throat, sinking her teeth into pale, freckled flesh.

Maedhros screamed. His body writhed and shook, hands and legs thrashing in a futile attempt to escape. Thuringwethil was uncaring. She released her fangs and dug them deep into another bite, blood spraying as she found the perfect spot: a pulsating vein on the elf’s collarbone. The elf’s scream rose in pitch as Thuringwethil took her third bite, teeth leaving red crescents across his chest. The vampire’s expression was that of almost orgasmic ecstasy, lapping and sucking fervently at each bloody bite. 

Maedhros screamed still, but his voice was growing hoarse, his movements lax. His skin had taken an almost blueish tint, and his angry eyes were beginning to glaze.

Mairon lifted a hand. “Enough.”

Thuringwethil obeyed immediately. She loosened her grip and dragged her tongue over her lips, savoring every last drop. Maedhros slumped in his chains, almost losing consciousness.

“Revive him”, Mairon ordered.

Thuringwethil nodded. With a sharp fingernail she sliced open her own palm, offering it to the _noldo._ Her blood was thick and black like tar. “Drink.”

Maedhros did not. Thuringwethil offered again. “Drink.”

No response. The elf was beginning to lose consciousness. Thuringwethil understood. This time forcefully, she grabbed Maedhros’ chin and shoved her arm to his mouth, until he had no choice but to drink or suffocate. He chose the first option. Hesitantly he sucked on the vampire’s arm and swallowed, then almost gagged due to the taste. Thuringwethil forced his mouth to remain closed. Once the elf had had his share, Thuringwethil drew her arm away. The sliced open skin was once again pristine, with no trace of a visible scar.

Maedhros, too, looked different now. Although his skin was still a mess of sweat and blood, the rosiness was starting to return to his cheeks, and his eyes remained fully open. Still, there was a strange, almost drunken haze to them. Melkor smiled, recognizing that look very well. _Soon._

“He is ready”, Thuringwethil said.

“Yes”, Mairon nodded in satisfaction. “Leave us.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

The vampire smiled, slid into the shadows and disappeared.

Mairon smiled now as well, as he came closer to observe Maedhros’ condition. This time the elf did not pull away from his touch, although his pained expression signaled visible discomfort. “What did you do to me?” he hissed from between bloodied teeth.

“A simple relief for your pain.”

“A strange way to relief pain by causing it.”

“Oh, I did not talk about the pain you already experienced”, Mairon lifted his eyebrows. “But the pain that is to come.”

Maedhros’ eyes widened, but to his apparent surprise, Mairon did not touch him. Instead the Maia stepped backward, started unlacing his cape and discarded it to the now empty table. The elf swallowed as the sight. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead.

“Yes, Nelyo. Keep your eyes on me.”

Mairon’s hands went to his back, where he began to undo the buttons on his robe. With each pop of a button the elf’s expression grew more distressed, and he began to whimper, his chains rattling as he futilely searched for a better position.

Mairon’s smile widened as he popped the final button, revealing a single, bare shoulder, then another, and finally allowing the entire garment drop to the floor. There was nothing underneath. Melkor hummed in appreciation. He had always appreciated his lieutenant’s body, lithe and feline, with the equal amount of strength and an almost feminine grace.

Maedhros, too, groaned. And although the sight seemed to cause the elf discomfort, he was unable to tear his gaze away. A flush was beginning to spread from his cheeks to his chest and further down his body, which was already starting to betray him. His growing hardness was testament to that.

“Do you want me? _”_ Mairon asked, dancing gracefully around the elf, lightly tracing a line on his jaw with a sharp fingernail.

“No”, Maedhros replied. But his body said _yes._

The sight made Mairon’s eyes flicker with desire. He moved closer, observing the elf in like a predator studying its prey, admiring its pretty wings before he tore them out.

“Oh, but I think you do”, Mairon said. “You enjoy when I touch you like this.”

Mairon’s fingers caressed Maedhros’ lip, carefully wiping away the streaks of tears and blood. The elf shivered, but he did not deny it. He did not pull away as Mairon leaned closer and took his face into his hands, touching his lips to the elf’s open mouth. He kissed him hungrily, possessively, all the while keeping his eyes open and locking his gaze with Melkor’s across the room, as if it was him that he was kissing instead of this lowly elf.

Maedhros moaned as Mairon’s tongue lapped against his own – a sound half arousal, half discomfort. His back was arched as if to recoil, yet an invisible string seemed to pull him _towards_ the Maia, not away.

“Good”, Mairon crooned, moving his hands further down the elf’s back, his sharp fingernails drawing trails of blood beneath them. “You are so good. Give your body to me.”

Mairon’s lips moved further down, and Maedhros’ whimpered as they touched the sore crescents that Thuringwethil had left upon his skin.

“Don’t…” he cried. _Please do,_ his hips said.

Lips trailing even further downwards, drawing shapes on a slender stomach, gliding in circles around a throbbing shaft.

“Stop…” _Do not._

Hands cupping around buttocks, tongue swiping against swollen stones, a leaking tip. Maedhros tilted his head backwards, hips forwards. He cried out as Mairon fully enveloped his lips around his shaft, beginning a slow and teasing suckle. The Maia took his time to explore every inch of the elf, sheathing Maedhros’ length into his mouth to the hilt. Once again he did not break eye contact, looking at Melkor through the veil of his eyelashes.

Melkor felt himself growing harder at the sight, imagining the Maia’s lips on his own skin, the constrictions of his throat against engorged length.

Maedhros began an inadvertent set of thrusts, groaning as his tip met the very back of Mairon’s throat, and Mairon moaned in pleasure at the sensation. He was sinfully good in this: in both receiving and giving pleasure, using his body and his voice to bring the elf closer to the edge. Melkor almost felt a little tinge of jealousy – he ached for the touch of his lieutenant, yearned to be pleasured like the elf was being pleasured right now.

As if sensing Melkor’s discomfort, Mairon stopped, releasing the elf’s length from his mouth with a _pop._

“Ah”, Maedhros whined at the sudden lack of touch. “M…Mairon…”

“Oh, Maitimo”, Mairon tilted his eyebrows in pity. “What do you want?”

“I…” Maedhros opened his mouth and closed it again, as if trying to say something, but suppressing it. All he could manage was a hiss through clenched teeth.

Mairon rose from his knees, circling behind the elf and ghosting his fingers just above freckled skin. “Tell me, love. What is it that you want?”

Maedhros closed his eyes. “More…”

“Good boy.” Mairon laid his hands on Maedhros’ hips. Just the simple touch made the elf shiver in pleasure. “And more you shall get, my dear.”

Mairon did not waste his time getting the elf ready. He simply circled behind him, entering him with a single thrust. The _noldo_ cried out, unprepared, half moaning and half sobbing as Mairon began a set of harsh, punishing thrusts. All of his previous gentleness was gone now. This body in front of him was nothing but a thing for him to use, a pathway to his own pleasure. He took a hand to the elf’s throat, strangling him with one hand as he squeezed his waist with another, sharp fingernails digging bloody circles into white skin. Mairon fucked him in earnest, not once breaking eye contact with his master, moaning his name as he came.

Melkor groaned in satisfaction as the sight. His lieutenant had served loyally indeed. He would be rewarded well after this.

“No…” Maedhros cried as Mairon pulled out, not giving him the chance to come himself. Blood and semen ran down his bare thighs, which were now shaking with strain. Still his body ached for Mairon’s touch, for _any_ touch – anything to ease the burning in his veins. _“More…”_

Mairon silenced him by placing a single finger upon his lips, hushing softly. “No. You are far too sore for more.”

Tears of shame drew dark lines across freckled cheeks. “Please…”

Mairon wiped himself on the elf’s flank, gathering his clothes and dressing himself. Then he turned and pressed a kiss upon the elf’s forehead, gently caressing his cheek with his hand. “You are so beautiful when you beg, Russandol.”

Somehow hearing that name pulled the elf back from his trance, and the haze behind his eyes seemed to clear, the fire returning. He flinched at Mairon’s touch, a shudder running through his entire body, but then his eyes glazed again, leaving him in a nearly catatonic state.

“Don’t cry, dear”, Mairon said. “This won’t be our last time. Not by any reach.”

*

It was not.

Mairon took a habit of visiting him daily, sometimes even more often than that. The elf was tough, Mairon had to give him that – he had not expected him to last so long.

He would break, sooner or later. Everyone did.

Mairon set to combing his blood-clotted locks, observing his reflection from the surface of a blade. Mairon had taken up the habit of wearing his hair straight, just like his master did. Even his clothes were darker now, barely distinguishable of what Melkor wore. _Gorthaur the Cruel_ they had started calling him – but Mairon did not see himself that way. He was merciful. The elf had been given a choice. He simply had not taken it.

Mairon sighed, wiping away the trail of blood that ran across his pale forehead. He could barely make out his freckles anymore, so long he had spent away from the sun. He found himself thinking of Maitimo, the pretty constellations on his skin. It would not be long before their light would go out. Even his eyes had seemed dimmer today, as if they were losing color each passing day. Much like Mairon had lost the original brown of his own, now replaced with cat-like slits surrounded by scarlet flame.

Momentarily Mairon was overcome by a strange emotion: a faint sting behind his eyes, a throbbing in his chest. He did not recognize this ache – in fact it was a long time since he had felt anything like it. It reminded him of a time he had almost thought to be forgotten, a place that had only become a distant memory.

But he simply shook the feeling off, as he did with most emotions these days. They served no purpose. All that mattered was pain, and the pleasure after. It would not be long that Maitimo would learn that too. He was already familiar with the pleasure. Now he only needed to learn to embrace the pain.

Just like Mairon himself had done.


End file.
